


Casadastraphobia

by inkedinserendipity



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, casadastraphobia: fear of the sky, do you ever wonder what the ipre left behind, do you ever wonder why the bob is made of domes, lucretia character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 21:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: Lucretia brings bits and pieces of her homeworld with her. Things she cannot forget.Though they may not remember, there's a reason the Bureau of Balance is made of domes.





	Casadastraphobia

**Author's Note:**

> this fic came entirely from my personal headcanon that the Bureau of Balance's layout is a leftover from Lucretia's homeworld.

Lucretia doesn’t like looking up. There’s only one sun and the sky overhead is painted the wrong color, a deep unnerving blue that makes her nauseous if she stares at it too long. Besides, craning her neck back gives her a crick that brings painfully to the front of her mind her new old age.

“Do you have the plans?”

“Of course,” Lucretia replies, handing the plan to Maureen and closing her folder again with a snap.

“Gotcha.” Maureen runs a quick eye over it and nods approvingly. Then a half-smile quirks up at her lips. “Fan of domes, are we?” 

“Something of the sort.”

“Well.  Should work,” Maureen mutters, adjusting her glasses on her nose. “Looks fine. Give me a couple weeks to assemble a construction crew - heh, literally,” she snorts, “and we should have your base up and running. Environmental controls are going to be a bit difficult with this three-dimensional hemisphere shape you’ve got going, but I’ll make it work. My son’s got an eye for that stuff.”

Even the ground beneath her feet feels weird. The grass is too long, too coarse, to feel right. “Excellent. I’ll need the blueprints of the automatons who are to work on construction, of course.”

“And I’ll get ‘em to you in a couple weeks. Let’s see, I’ll need…” Maureen trails off, muttering inaudibly to herself as she inspects the map closer. Then she stops. “’Captain’s Quarters’?” 

“Son of a bitch,” Lucretia curses, and snatches the paper back. “That’s the - this is a draft. Apologies. Here,” she says, and hands the most recent copy to Maureen. Her hands are trembling. In the corner of her mind she can hear Davenport hollering  _ that’s another five for the jar! _ but she shoves the recollection down with a fresh stab of memory.

Maureen watches her strangely. “Lucretia….”

“Madam Director, please,” she says, voice wavering almost inaudibly. Gods damn it, that was the wrong copy, the wrong damned copy, she’d forgotten to scratch out the old names - 

“Yeah, okay, Madam Director,” Maureen says, still eyeing Lucretia over, but thankfully doesn’t comment further, just takes the paper. This time, when Lucretia closes the portfolio, the resulting snap is much less authoritarian.

“Huh,” Maureen says, and holds the papers to her with a grin. “‘Captain’s Quarters’ to “Ward’s Quarters’, huh? Hell of a handwriting typo, Luc -  I mean, Madam Director.” 

“Ha, yes,” Lucretia replies. “Those will be the quarters of my ward.”

“Isn’t his name Davenport?” 

_ Davenport _ . She almost flinches. That’s all her Captain can say nowadays. She shoots for an embarrassed smile, twisting her features to get her way like Lup taught her so many years ago, and if she falls a bit flat Maureen doesn’t notice. “To be honest, there was a book series in my youth in which the ward of the protagonist was named Captain, and I’m afraid as I was drafting the wires got quite crossed in my mind.” 

“Captain?” Maureen asks, grinning. She seems relieved that Lucretia’s panic-induced severity has faded. “An unusual name.”

“Not quite. I know a Captain Bane in Goldcliff. He’s a Segreant right now, but given time he could become the Captain his name deserves.”

“You always seemed the bookish type,” she says, arm twitching like she wants to elbow Lucretia but thinks better of it. “Ever think of writing something?”

“Heavens no,” Lucretia says. “I think I’d be a poor author indeed.”

* * *

 

Bubbles and bonds. That’s most of how she remembers her homeworld. 

Bubble-blowing - it was something of a game on her homeworld, amongst children. Grab the nearest wizard, transmute the bubbles a different color, and pop as many as you can. She and her parents would play it all the time, when Lucretia was in the younger years of her education. Her mother would drag her out of her room, claiming she’d wither without sunlight (“Ridiculous, mother, I’m not a  _ plant _ ,”) and despite Lucretia’s exasperation she could pass hours happily with her parents, popping the bubbles with single-minded determination. With children her age she was something of a strategist - games at school were always more physical than games with her parents, and before her teenaged years Lucretia enjoyed devising the best plan, the best tactics, the best way to win. Then she grew up and apart and into her books instead, but the bubbles she always remembered fondly.

She could recall clearly the first time the crew discovered the Lup and Taako had never played with bubbles - Magnus’s righteous indignation on their behalf, their Captain’s reserved amusement, Barry’s ill-disguised glee at playing again. During the second cycle, the crew dedicated an entire week to transmuting bubbles and coercing Taako into transmuting said bubbles, because Lucretia’s and Barry’s and Davenport’s magical prowess would mysteriously disappear whenever the game was mentioned.  _ Convenient, _ Taako would sneer, but he’d do it anyway. When Lup tackled him full-on, going for a bubble that’s “hers to pop!”, Lucretia saw him laugh for the first time. 

The IPRE would never ‘fess up to it, but most of the students were convinced that the steely-exteriored, soft-cored Director of the IPRE based her campus’s domed design off the bubble game that she doubtless played as a child. 

Lucretia would never tarnish the original plans of the IPRE. Rather, she makes a copy, then traces the Bureau’s outline over the copy. Her true first draft for the Bureau of Balance headquarters are concealed, perhaps better than perhaps any illusion magic her Captain might have conjured.

In the light of the Voidfish’s tank, the lines of its ink that overlay the schematic of the IPRE shine with an otherwordly light.

On the eastern campus of the Bureau of Balance she’s drawn a dojo, a large dome that in another world would have housed the fighters-to-be, the security guards and tanks that kept their fellows safe. The center space she leaves a large, sprawling lawn but adds life, adorns it with trees and the very favorite plants of the foremost botanist at the IPRE. Above the library, her own quarters. Atop the old necromancy center she marks off space for one of her potential employees, the owner of a wine-and-pottery place with a truly strange nickname. 

The arcana towers - a haphazard mess of full spheres interlocked like multidimensional chains and towering precariously over the lawn - she replaces with, of all things, the dorms. She won’t leave their chief arcanist alone again. 

Last, tucked in a corner of the dorms, she leaves a room with a twin-sized bed, the door locked and interior untouched. Just in case. 

Fisher warbles quietly at her, the shine of their ink pulsing in time with their melody. She smiles tiredly at the fish, rubbing two fingers absently along their tentacles. They float onto her shoulder and hum a quiet question that she steadfastly ignores. Even when they point a tendril toward the duck on her desk - painted with her curly black hair and dark skin - she ignores their cries. 

They hum a tune, sorrowful and sad, then seem to notice the grief on her face and change their tune. It’s happy and upbeat, and she’s heard it before. It takes her a moment, but then she remembers. 

Five years ago, on her birthday. The room of the Starblaster was chaotic and warm, their Captain abandoning his post to autopilot for today to chat with Merle, Taako and Lup practically at blows over the privilege of icing her cake, Magnus and Barry animatedly discussing their favorite of Lucretia’s works just to watch her blush, the swear jar half-full on the counter of the Starblaster’s kitchen.

It is still in the Voidfish’s chambers. The only thread that bonds this Lucretia with the Lucretia of five years ago, twenty-five years younger, is the Voidfish’s song.

She takes a deep breath and folds the map into its folder with a snap. The song stops. Around her, the room is lit with a dark blue hue, unfathomable shapes drifting along the walls. She wishes she could still be scared of the dark, afraid of strange shapes in the night. 

But she no longer has that luxury. The Director stands, pulling her politely distant mask in place, and strides from the room. Behind her, the Voidfish warbles sadly - they don’t understand why they’re alone again.

Their sorrowful melody follows her through her lonely halls.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me, i'm inkedinserendipity on the tumblr


End file.
